


love, i think the body is a miracle

by norgbelulah



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15598080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: “It doesn’t have to be like I said before. Forget the boat. We don’t have to go anywhere far. Just come to my place. Get some rest. I won’t keep you long, if you don’t want to stay.”Marcus stayed three months.





	love, i think the body is a miracle

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this fic with a much bigger idea that was going to be more about demons and stuff. I wanted to finish it before the next season, then the show got canceled and I was real sad. I kept going, but got stalled. Then I came back to it and realized I'd sort of already finished a nice little character arc for Marcus. 
> 
> So here we are.
> 
> Please enjoy this beautiful human relaxing for a fucking minute with a nice man.
> 
> Many thanks to [Slippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet) for an excellent beta and a title, which was taken from the poem ["Grace" by Celia Woloch](http://www.slowmuse.com/2009/02/24/nothing-but-wild-emptiness/).

Peter had always known Marcus was holding information back. Even when he was pouring out his heart on Peter’s boat about his parents and his time at the boys’ home, there was something in Marcus’ eyes that told Peter, _just listen, don’t push_.

Peter was glad he hadn’t pushed, even that day in the truck, when it was clear something more than the flu was up with Andy. He was glad to hear the honest relief in Marcus’ whispered, “Thank you.” It felt good to have helped.

He was even more glad to happen upon Marcus on the road out of the mainland ferry dock just days after they parted. Peter hadn’t been sure right away it was him. The shoulders were Marcus’. So was the cant of his hips and his slightly bowed legs as he walked, like a damn cowboy. Peter thought he knew the man on the road, but from a distance he couldn’t be sure. This figure looked beaten down, exhausted. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed toward the ground.

Peter had never seen Marcus wear a hat like that, dark with a wide brim. He thought perhaps it wasn’t Marcus, for just a brief moment, until he realized as his truck steadily approached that the hat was the kind he thought priests used to wear.

Peter rolled up alongside Marcus, whose body was tense, though he did not look away from the ground. Through the already open window, Peter called, “Going my way?”

Marcus’ head jerked up, his eyes wide, startled and somehow guilty. “Peter,” he said as though he were speaking to a ghost.

Peter leaned towards him as he turned on his emergency blinkers. “Are you all right?”

Marcus didn’t speak for a moment, though he stared at Peter, the guilt in his eyes turning to a longing Peter had seen there before. “No,” he finally said. “Andy’s died and I’ve…”

He didn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence. Peter didn’t really need him to.

“Where’s your friend?”

“I left him. I need--” He turned his head to look down the road, as though it were a gaping maw.

“That’s the last thing you need,” Peter found himself saying. He‘d assumed his few snatched moments with Marcus were over. They’d had a connection, but they were like ships passing in the night: plotted on different courses, perhaps even different charts altogether. Now he wasn’t so sure. “You need help. Everyone does sometimes.”

Marcus shook his head, but didn’t turn back to Peter. “Tomas can’t--”

“I didn’t mean him. It’s okay to want to get away for a while.” Peter remembered the desperate hope in Marcus’ eyes when they’d so briefly talked about retirement. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Marcus cracked a bitter laugh, his teeth clenching to bite it back. “Peter.” Marcus said his name like it was temptation.

“It doesn’t have to be like I said before. Forget the boat. We don’t have to go anywhere far. Just come to my place. Get some rest. I won’t keep you long, if you don’t want to stay.”

Marcus stayed three months.

 

 

That first day, Marcus wouldn’t let Peter get near him.

Peter had never seen his expression so open, so unguarded. In his face was a screaming vulnerability, a combination of fear and guilt that Peter didn’t know what to make of.

Marcus looked around Peter’s place, a houseboat off a small dock in Des Moines, somewhat blankly for a few minutes before he set his bag down and scoffed, "You said forget the boat."

Peter smiled, playing up flirtatious embarrassment. "Yeah, well. Forget that other boat. This one has a real bed." At Marcus' startled, almost panicked expression, Peter amended, "Two even. There's a pullout in my office below."

Marcus smiled gratefully, but didn't move from where he was awkwardly standing near the sofa until Peter asked, "Do you want a drink?"

"God, yes," Marcus replied, holding on to his faltering smile as Peter poured them both some whiskey.

Marcus watched Peter’s hands as they fixed the drink. He rubbed at his forehead with his thumb. It was a gesture Peter had seen him make before when he was tired and uncertain. Peter knew Marcus was a man used to physical exhaustion. Peter understood that. He knew what that was like too, to push and push and realize you can always go just a little further. He also knew that what Marcus was suffering now was not the same. That he had lost the drive, the thing that would make that final and final and final push possible. Marcus needed to rest his head and his heart. Maybe for a long time.

Peter handed him a rocks glass with only whiskey in it. Marcus took it and swallowed half in one gulp. Peter smirked. Marcus met his eyes, as though following through on a dare, and downed the rest. His eyes fell to the bottle on the sideboard at Peter’s back, but Peter shook his head and Marcus shrugged, turning away, vaguely pretending to study a landscape painting Peter had bought last year from a local artist. He still didn’t sit down and he didn’t come any closer to Peter.

“You want a shower?”

Peter braced himself for a defensive retort, but Marcus only replied, “I had one this morning, thanks.”

“You hungry?”

Marcus turned back, letting out a heavy breath that Peter could hear from across the room. He looked at Peter with that same raw, striking openness and said, “I really don’t think I could eat.”

“Come on then,” Peter replied, motioning towards the closed french doors to his left. He opened them to reveal the master bedroom of his little floating abode. Really, only the bed fit in it, the bed which he hadn’t bothered to make that morning. But the view from it, through the living room and out to the patio deck on the opposite side, was spectacular at dusk.

Marcus hesitated at the doorway, shooting a strained glance in Peter’s direction.

Peter smiled softly. “Look, you’re wrecked, man. I can tell.”

“But it’s clearly your bed,” Marcus protested, though he was eyeing it like it was a mirage in a desert. “And it’s only,” he glanced at his watch, “only four in the afternoon.”

“Yeah. What else have you got going on?”

Peter wanted to reach out to him, brush his shoulder, cup his cheek. But he just leaned in and smiled again, all warmth and reassurance. Marcus looked between Peter and the bed, again as though one or both of them would swallow him whole.

Peter remembered that feeling, the constant tension, waiting for the spike of panic that would strike just when things seemed like they could finally be safe. The feeling that had been just beneath his skin, coiling muscles, winding him up, to snap if he let himself relax--to eat, to sleep, to enjoy the touch of another person. It had taken him a long time to get over, but it had always helped to be trying to help someone else.

Peter knew something terrible had happened to Marcus. Something recent, more recent than the story he’d told on Peter’s boat. He could see it in Marcus’ eyes, in his body, in the way his breath caught and held and never really let go. Peter wanted to know what had happened. He wanted to know Marcus, too. But he knew questions were the last thing Marcus needed, maybe for a while.

Marcus also didn’t need someone telling him, “I know what you’re going through.” So Peter just nodded, as though Marcus had agreed to use the bed, turned his palms up and away from his body, turning the non threatening gesture into an invitation to lie down. He said lightly, “Anyway, I’ve got some errands to run in town. I’ll get us some food too. For later. And you can just lay down in here. For now, all right?”

Marcus’ expression looked slightly betrayed, like Peter was inflicting something upon him, but he nodded and tentatively sat down at the very edge of the bed. When he looked up, Peter gave him a mock-stern glare. “Now, don’t get your boots on my clean sheets,” he said.

“In what world are these sheets clean?” Marcus tossed back and Peter turned away chuckling.

Marcus had already laid down by the time Peter reached the door, keys in hand. When he came back over an hour later, his guest was deeply asleep.

Peter ate a couple egg rolls and put the rest of the chinese in the fridge for another day. He read a few case files on the couch and by nine he was ready for bed too. Marcus hadn’t stirred at all. Peter watched him as he changed into pajamas, taking a moment to decide, taking a risk that he really did know what this man needed.

He came around to the other side of his bed and climbed in slowly, easing himself next to Marcus, but not touching. He tried to make himself known, but not disturb, and was rewarded when, once he settled his head on the pillow and his legs stretched comfortably, Marcus stirred, sighing, and turned into Peter’s arms.

Marcus didn’t open his eyes when he mumbled, “These clean sheets of yours smell like you and I was wishing for this, I think. Dreaming about it.”

Peter pulled him close. “I’m glad,” he said.

 

When Peter woke in the morning, in the purple darkness of a room that wouldn’t see sunlight for at least another hour, Marcus was no longer in the bed with him. Peter had a hazy memory of a dreamy kiss and a mumbled conversation about house keys, so he surmised Marcus had gone out for some reason and tried not to worry.

He showered, briefly considering then deciding he was too preoccupied for self pleasure, dressed, and was thinking hard about how elaborate a breakfast to undertake, when Marcus returned.

He came in so quietly, he clearly expected Peter to still be sleeping. His eyes widened and then brightened as he gave Peter a soft smile from just inside the door.

“You're an early riser,” he said, giving Peter a look that wasn’t easy to parse.

It seemed happy enough so Peter returned his smile and replied, “It helps in my line of work. A lot of things happen in the early hours.”

Marcus’ expression turned slightly wry. “Yes,” he said. “I know the feeling.”

Peter tilted his head, but knew it still wasn't the time to push. He thought of Marcus’ face, his quavering voice when he spoke about the boy in Mexico that night on Peter’s boat. The boy whose neck turned all the way around.

Right now, Marcus looked good. Somewhat rested anyway.

He was wearing the same clothes he had on the day before, which made him look a little rumpled but in a slightly comfortable way that made Peter happy to imagine him easing a little, coming to rest, here, with him. There was no mistaking that Marcus had a hard time of things, at least recently and Peter, for his own reasons, wanted to give him something better.

He wondered when Marcus was going to become curious about Peter or his reasons, and what exactly he would say when questioned. He thought, it was certainly his common experience, at least with the echoes of trauma. But it might also be something else. Peter wanted to find out, but he knew they would need time and far less tension in the air.

So, he turned back to his still open fridge and said, maybe a little loudly, “What do you like for breakfast?”

Marcus approached from behind him with more confidence in the limited space than he’d shown the evening before. Peter craned his neck slightly to meet Marcus’ eyes. They were calm, more peaceful than he’d ever seen them. “I’ll have anything,” Marcus replied easily. “I usually do with black coffee and the memory of a cigarette.”

Peter almost rolled his eyes. “Okay, but what do you _like_?”

Marcus’ smile grew a little wider. He came up even closer behind Peter, so their bodies fit together. He smelled of the Sound and the woods nearby. Peter turned his head back to the contents of his fridge as Marcus asked, speaking lowly into his ear, “What have you got to go in an omelet?”

Peter leaned slightly forward to open the vegetable crisper and pulled out an onion and a bunch of mustard greens. “Parmesan or goat cheese?”

Marcus moved with him, reaching around to take the veggies. “Parm, I think. Goat’s too mild to go well with these bitter bastards,” he said, indicating the greens. He pulled the bag open and examined them, rubbing a leaf between his fingers. “CSA?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Peter replied. He took out his lonely nub of parmesan, realizing he was running low. “I hope that’s enough.”

“Oh, that’ll be fine,” Marcus said and set the veggies out on the kitchen island, casting his eyes about, and looking fairly excited.

“You’re okay with making it?” Peter asked. He pulled out the eggs too and some milk. Marcus took them and their fingers brushed. Peter felt his ears pink and Marcus’ eyes dove swiftly back to the ingredients before him once they broke apart.

“More than,” Marcus said, almost breathlessly. He seemed to check himself in the next moment and added, “It’s the least I can do, since you--since you’ve been so welcoming.”

Peter reached out and clasped Marcus’ arm, just above the elbow. Marcus stilled, his eyes flashed white, but he didn’t pull away. It was a push, but one Peter couldn’t help. “You’re welcome to anything here,” he said sincerely. “And you don’t owe me anything for it.”

Marcus blinked and then smiled in a way that was almost childlike in its simplicity. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. When Peter didn’t let him go, he added, “I believe you, Peter. Thanks. I want to make the omelet anyway, all right?”

Peter dropped his hand, sliding both into his back pockets. “Sure,” he said. “You want some help?”

“Where’s your cheese grater?” Marcus was already reaching to pull a knife from the block on the island and rolling the onion under his fingers. His hands moved confidently, as if he’d been trained in a kitchen.

Peter opened a drawer and answered as he searched for it, “Uh, I’ve got one of those microplane things. Grates pretty fine.”

“Oh, fancy,” Marcus tossed off.

When Peter turned, he saw Marcus was grinning to himself. He handed the thing over, saying, “I mean, it’s just from Target.”

Marcus set to work, apparently finished with idle chit chat now that he had all his required tools. But Peter could sense a story. “Where did you learn to cook?” he asked casually as he came around the side of the island and sat on one of the kitchen stools, also from Target.

Marcus shot Peter a brief, suspicious look then dropped his eyes back down to the onion he was chopping. "The best way to make sure you're fed in a boys' home is to make friends with the kitchen staff," he said lightly. "Making friends with a bunch of Midland spinsters generally means offering to help."

"Seems like everyone would be clambering for that spot," Peter said slowly, testing.

Marcus kept his eyes on the onion, chopping it fine with efficient swipes of the blade. "You have to be particularly tenacious," he paused then added, "and the right kind of pathetic." When Peter left room for Marcus to go on, he said, "Showing up with a black eye every couple weeks will do the trick."

Peter winced silently, but kept his gaze on Marcus' hands. They were moving on to the greens now, the knife tracing out each fibrous stem. Marcus continued, "A kitchen is a great place to get information, especially in a monastery or an abbey. The only place conversation's more free is in the Confessional."

Peter smiled. "Do you take confession often?"

"You mean did I?" Marcus asked lightly, though Peter could tell his defrocking was still a sore spot. "No, not as such. In certain circumstances, of course. But my talents were...usually directed elsewhere."

Peter was curious, his mind whirring with the memory of Marcus' face as he walked into Andy's house the last time he'd seen him. But he left him his space.

As Marcus continued to cook, they talked about other things, mostly about Peter. His life in Seattle, for instance, where Fish and Wildlife had placed him for his first posting after the Army, and where he'd fallen in love with the water. And his house, about which Marcus asked very pointed and direct questions regarding the maintenance and cost of almost everything to do with it.

Peter didn't mind the interrogation. He liked his life and talking about it to Marcus felt like he could give this lonely, conflicted man a window into another world, another way to be. He could remember how alien the idea of owning something like a house--even one that was also a boat--had felt when he left the Army. How surreal it felt to buy furniture for it at first, to put his things in his closets, to paint a wall because he felt like having it be that color.

"Have you always lived alone?" Marcus asked him point blank.

Peter's smile turned rueful and he could tell Marcus was about to take the question back. Their breakfast was cooked and eaten, the empty plates pushed aside and the grease in the pan cooling on the stove top. "No," Peter said, as Marcus opened his mouth. "I lived with someone for a few years, about five years ago. He was, ah, younger, and it was good for a while, but we wanted different things."

Marcus blinked, apparently processing the information. He smiled after a moment and said, "I like you with a younger man. You'd take care of him."

Peter felt a blush rise high in his cheeks. He thought briefly of saying he was fairly sure Marcus was also younger than he was, but didn't. Instead he replied, "I tried. For as long as he wanted me to."

Marcus took Peter's hand. His fingers were warm. "I'm so very glad we met," he said.

"I have to go to work," Peter said, smiling. He tightened his fingers around Marcus'. He wanted to stay, to pull this man inexorably towards him, but he did have things to get done. "Do you want to come?"

"I already had a walk in the woods today," Marcus replied, his tone playful.

"And you've spent all night on a boat." Peter rubbed his thumb across the back of Marcus' hand. "Why don't I take you for a walk on the beach?"

"I've already been to the beach, too."

"Been there, done that, huh?"

Marcus smiled enigmatically.

"If you just walked down to the little parklet by the dock, that's not really the beach," Peter went on.

"Ah, but what is a beach in the Pacific Northwest?" Marcus asked, as though it was some kind of philosophical question.

"Let me show you."

"Might as well," Marcus said. "I haven't got anything else going on, have I?"

 

Marcus had no idea how long he was going to stay with Peter and it was a continual delight to him that Peter didn't seem to care at all. It wasn’t as though he didn’t care if Marcus was there. Peter definitely wanted Marcus, but he never talked, or asked, about what the plan was.

Almost all of Marcus’ life, up to this point, he thought, had been a series of executed plans. Since the night he picked up his father’s shotgun, he’d had to think, and think hard, about what to do next.

He’d had one night at the boys’ home, blithely thinking that someone would care for him again, that at least enough he wouldn’t have to worry about meals and sleep, before the reality of the place made itself known. He’d thought very briefly that all the screaming in his life might stop. It hadn’t then and it didn’t for a long, long time. Every executed plan, failed or not, included so much screaming, so often with his own voice compounding the din.

It wasn’t until he landed in Peter’s funny little houseboat, dozing in the middle of the afternoon in Peter’s bed, that Marcus realized it had been at least 48 hours since he’d heard a raised human voice. There had obviously been times in his life when he’d lived in quiet, savored it too, but it felt so long ago now that he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

In the end, he just drifted back to sleep.

And he felt something inside him lift, ease, when Peter slipped so carefully into his own bed, made such room for Marcus. It had been a long time since Marcus had been kissed with such sincere tenderness as Peter had, first on his boat, then in his truck, but it had been even longer since Marcus had been held for more than a scant few moments by anything more solid than the Grace of God.

Marcus had been feeling a touch shaky--leaving Tomas behind had rocked him in a way that he really should have expected. And Peter had been absolutely lovely about the whole thing, handling him with such care, and watching him with clear-eyed concern.

He’d been watching Marcus all morning, that first morning in his house, during breakfast and their ensuing conversation, so sweetly, that when they reached the beach--a narrow strip of land to the south of where Peter’s house was docked--Marcus took his hand.

“I’m going to need this to make notes once we get to the water,” Peter said. His eyes were bright and he was smiling. So was Marcus, which was rather lovely.

“I’ll just hold on for a little while then, shall I?” Marcus said.

Peter nodded and Marcus didn’t even look around to see if anyone was near. He just pulled Peter close, their arms, then their chests bumping lightly, until their lips met, with only a little effort on either part. It felt like a welcome, like a snug fit, like a good place to rest. Marcus was exceptionally pleased.

Peter’s fingers tightened around Marcus’, not possessively, but perhaps in response to the pleasure of the kiss. Marcus opened his mouth, allowing their connection to deepen. Peter’s tongue was warm against Marcus’ and he tasted somewhat salty, almost like the brackish water the tide was pulling in to lap at the soles of their shoes. Peter’s beard scratched a bit against his lips in a way that was a pleasure all its own, grounding and real. Marcus made a noise in the back of his throat, one that surprised even him in the sound of its vulnerability.

Peter pulled back and smiled at him, eyes sleepy, breath warm. Their fingers were still entangled, but Peter had drawn his other hand up to cradle the back of Marcus’ head. “All right?” He asked softly.

“‘Course,” Marcus grunted, unwilling to trust his voice not to crack across any other words.

“You’d say if something wasn’t,” Peter said. Marcus noted it wasn’t a question.

“Honestly, I’d probably just leave,” he answered.

Peter laughed. It was low, but punctuated, like he’d meant to hold it in and couldn't. “Fair enough.”

They spent the morning counting little crabs and mussels on the shore. Peter took notes on a clipboard he’d produced from his bag and he recruited Marcus’ help to measure a few of them. Marcus tried very hard to concentrate on the tasks at hand, but unsurprisingly he felt the science behind wildlife protection was not his calling. He watched Peter work, however, and felt that the sight of his fine, dark eyes looking intensely between his sea-sprayed papers and the little creatures of the shore more than made up for Marcus not having much of a head, or attention span, for numbers.

They travelled back to Peter’s house in something of a quiet companionship. Perhaps they both had what was to come on their minds and didn’t want to spoil it with idle chit chat. That was how Marcus felt, anyway. The tension between them was thick, but not heavy, not oppressive. It was a bit of a comfort, enjoying the certainty for more, for something deeper between them than the fleeting kisses they’d already shared.

Marcus didn’t even let Peter set his bag down when they came through the door before he was on him and pressed fast, on the edge of rough, against him. The kiss was deep and long, hot too. It felt wonderful. Peter’s keys were tossed to the table only to slide to the floor, his bag thunked against the rug inside the doorway. They kicked off shoes and slipped off jackets, shirts pulled quickly over their heads.

Peter was a marvel to Marcus. He touched him, across his broad shoulders, thrusting splayed fingers through the silver hairs across his chest. Marcus pressed his face to Peter’s neck and sucked at his collarbone, hands dropping down to his belt buckle, while Peter moaned in his ear. He laughed, delighted, into Peter’s almost feverish skin. His fingers fumbled, but got the belt loose eventually and Peter himself pulled it through the loops and dropped it to the floor.

Marcus palmed Peter’s cock through his boxers, unwilling to wait for Peter to finish messing about with his own jeans. He kissed Peter fiercely and, pulling back briefly, growled, “God, Peter, let me suck your cock, yeah?”

Peter let out a breath, as though he’d been holding on to it for a while, and nodded. “Sure,” he said, voice shaky. “Whatever you want.”

Marcus smiled. Kissed him again, and sank to his knees, taking Peter’s jeans and boxers down with him. Marcus took his time, using his tongue first, to get Peter even harder than he already was. Peter tasted lovely, still a little salty, but more musky and masculine.

Marcus had always loved this act, when he’d been able to indulge. It felt like worship, which was such a blasphemous thing to think, but Marcus always knew God didn’t mind. What were bodies for, if not to enjoy? Hardliners in the church had never been able to convince him otherwise, not with the hate and pain he had seen.

Peter moaned when Marcus took him fully into his mouth. Marcus drew his hands around the tight muscles of Peter’s backside, let his fingernails lightly scrape his skin. Peter’s moan dropped low in his throat. He didn’t speak, but he wasn’t shy about showing his pleasure. Marcus loved that and sucked him harder, sweeping one hand around to play with his balls.

“Oh, fuck,” Peter breathed and said his name. Marcus kept going and swallowed the thick shot of come only a moment or two later.

Peter’s eyes were dark as he looked down at Marcus, who suddenly felt as if his legs might not hold him, should he choose to stand. Peter’s hands had been in Marcus’ hair, though he’d barely noticed the gentle touch until Peter slid his fingers from the back of his head around to caress his cheek, as though he were something precious.

“Come here,” he said, but didn’t move right away. Marcus knew what he must look like, his hair a mess, his mouth wet and fallen open, breathing hard, cock painfully tight in his jeans. He smiled slowly and let Peter help him up.

They kissed again, warm and wet, as they walked each other back through the doors into Peter’s bedroom. Peter took Marcus’ earlobe between his teeth, making him gasp and his cock pulse. “I’m so fucking close,” he said, strangled. “Make me come, Peter, come on.”

Peter didn’t respond, but his eyes flashed in the dim light of the room as he somehow found the dexterity to finally get Marcus’ pants open and down to the floor. His cock sprang up, straining to his navel. “God,” he moaned, laying back on the bed as Peter leaned over him, reaching for something in the drawer next to the bed.

It took Marcus’ brain far too long to realize. When he did he made a small noise in protest, unconscious, unsure. Peter was kneeling astride his splayed legs. “Shh,” he said softly. “We won’t do that, if you don’t want. Let me take care of it.” His eyes were serious, his mouth not smiling, but soft and beautiful.

“Kiss me,” Marcus whispered.

“So demanding,” he chuckled and did as Marcus asked. They kissed in a steady rhythm, the same one that Peter was soon using to slowly pump Marcus’ cock. He’d poured a little of the lube he’d got from the drawer in his hand and the motion was smooth and good.

Marcus breathed hard and then he was moaning into each kiss, lifting his chin and tilting his head back. Peter drew his other hand down Marcus’ exposed neck roughly, down to palm his nipple, then lean in to lick it, once, twice. Marcus’ moans cut off sharply when he felt it, He clammed up, riding it silently. Peter lifted his head to watch him come. Marcus met his eyes through slits, heavy lidded, as the hot spunk flowed over his stomach and the bedsheets.

Marcus tangled his fingers in Peter’s, sticky with lube and pre-come. “Beautiful,” he murmured and Peter grinned at him, a little sheepish. He moved, undoubtedly to go and get something to clean up with, but Marcus held onto his hand. His expression transformed to a question, a slight worry. “Hush,” he said, as though his whim were nothing. They both knew better. “Stay for a minute, yeah?”

Peter turned to lie next to him, keeping their hands together. “Yeah,” he said and began to run his free fingers through Marcus’ hair. God, this was wonderful. Marcus felt tired, but peaceful, like there was a glow within him, slowly warming him, and chasing away the darkness. But he knew it couldn’t last. And with that thought, he felt it start to fade away.

He opened his eyes and met Peter’s curious gaze.

“There’s no chance you’ve turned your brain off at all, is there?” Peter asked him in a light tone. No judgement. Marcus could, and would, kiss him for being so good.

"Bad habits,” he found himself sounding more sorry than he meant. “I can't just lay here with you all day," he added.

"Well, you can for a little while, at least."

Marcus huffed.

Peter’s smile was remarkably reassuring. "Just give yourself a couple days, Marcus. Let yourself have some time to relax."

Marcus frowned at him. He was beginning to feel antsy, itchy even. He thought suddenly of Mouse and Tomas on the road together. He should be with them. But he couldn't. So he should be doing something and he might as well figure out what that would be now.

"What do you do for fun?" Peter asked him. His voice was soft, curious, and cajoling. As though he had to tempt Marcus to reply.

Marcus blinked, surprised into answering, in his next breath, with no time to think much about the words as he let them fly, like doves from the basilica. "I drew at St. Aquinas--a place they send priests to...recover. They were charcoal drawings. Dark things were on my mind at the time." Peter leaned in to kiss his temple as he continued to speak, "I was at a convent not long ago. The sisters there gardened. I thought if I had the space, I might do too. If I could stay somewhere. I'd grow things and cook them myself. I'd paint the walls of my rectory--if they'd ever let me have one--yellows and greens and let the ivy grow in through the windows."

Peter's hand was still in Marcus' hair when he replied, "Why wouldn't they let you have a rectory?"

"Rectory comes with a parish, doesn't it?”

Peter shrugged. “My parents are lapsed Methodists.”

Marcus tried to smile, stretched his face into a faint grimace. “It does. A parish comes with a flock to shepherd, too.” He paused and closed his eyes against a truth he'd always known. “I'd be shite at it anyway."

Peter's fingers tightened. His other hand turned Marcus' face towards him. His eyes were very knowing. "That doesn't really answer my question."

"I have other skills. Talents, I think I told you," Marcus said. "They took me across the world. Never stayed long in one place. Makes no sense to tie up a--" he searched for a metaphor, "A prima ballerina teaching dance lessons to 12 year olds."

Peter laughed softly. "That good, huh?"

Marcus found he couldn't share in the mirth. "I thought so for a long time," he said. "I've...failed too much to fool myself any longer. I doubt they'd think me worth even the smallest parish at this point."

"I'm sure they'd be wrong."

Marcus shrugged, finding a bolstering strength in Peter’s completely unfounded faith in him. "I mean, they excommunicated me. And, honestly, I quite enjoyed what we just did together, so I think perhaps they can go fuck themselves and I'll let you fuck me here for a while and no one will have to worry about what I am or ever was worth."

Peter nodded slowly, eyes far too understanding. "That sounds perfectly reasonable to me."

Marcus looked at him and felt such incredible gratitude. "Thank you for not asking what those skills are."

"Well, I'm no idiot. I have an idea. One that I'm not sure I can really believe. But also, you know, one I'm not sure I want to know much more about. And I'm absolutely sure I don't want to make you talk about any of it, if you don't want to." He paused and kissed Marcus softly on the mouth. "So, you're welcome."

 

Marcus worked under the table. He saw a sign in a dingy window and got a job on the quality of his knife skills. He prep cooked and served food to dock workers. The hours were long, but he only worked three days a week. The other days he taught himself to paint with watercolors Peter bought for him. He liked to walk places. He took public transit and explored neighborhoods in the city, towns further afield, and the parks and nature preserves Peter worked so tirelessly to keep well.

Peter was a busy man. Occasionally, he’d go in the field, staying away from his little boat and his bed and Marcus, who liked the solitude, but still missed him.

Once, when he returned and Marcus kissed him home, Peter whispered, "This is good. This is so good, Marcus."

“It is,” Marcus replied, breathless. “It really is.”

But somehow, they both knew it wouldn’t last.

Peter’s eyes were never sad when he looked at Marcus, but at times he looked resigned. They didn’t speak of it much. Only when it felt too heavy not to say something. Once, perhaps two months into his stay, after sex, Marcus looked around the room--sunset was just at the horizon over the water--and said without thinking, “Couldn’t ask for a better vacation home, to be honest.”

Peter didn’t quite stiffen, but he did move, spurred by Marcus’ assertion. His smile wasn’t easy. “Vacation, huh?”

Marcus looked away and shrugged.

“You’ve decided on returning. To that life.”

Marcus still wasn’t exactly sure how much Peter had sussed about what had happened to Andy, and what Marcus had done for him. To him. He turned his eyes to meet Peter’s and spoke with conviction, but softly, in reverence to the evening and what they’d just done together, which had been wonderful, as always. “I didn’t know when I came here if I could go back to it all. I always knew that if I felt could, I would. Eventually. I’d have to.”

“You’d have to,” Peter repeats, but not in judgement. Like he was processing, making way to understand.

Marcus nodded. The pain he felt was a dull ache, not sharp, but not sweet either. He was sorry. But he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he left it completely. Left them. Left God.

Peter touched his arm, just lightly. “So, you feel like you could?”

“Not yet. But, I think so.”

“When?”

The least Marcus could do was give him time to prepare. Instead, he told the truth. “I don’t know.”

Peter closed his eyes and leaned his head against Marcus’ shoulder. They were laying on their stomachs on the bed, Marcus one way, facing the view out to the sea, and Peter the other, only looking at him. Peter’s body curled around Marcus’ and they didn’t speak about it again for maybe a week.

 

Marcus started pulling away in that time.

He would have liked to say he hadn’t meant to, but it would have been a lie. The hesitance in his smile, the way he put furniture and objects between himself and Peter, the lightness of his touch: they were all deliberate.

Marcus had cooked again for Peter. A shepherd's pie, with lamb not beef like he saw so often in America. The vegetables and gravy made the food rich and Peter’s face was relaxed, his eyes sleepy as he set down his fork and leaned back from the table. He groaned, long and loud for him, clearly trying to draw a smile from Marcus’ watchful expression.

When Marcus didn’t bite, couldn’t bring himself to, Peter tilted his head and asked softly, “You’re not very good at living in the moment, are you?”

Marcus blinked.

“You haven’t left yet, hun. But you’re acting like you’re already out the door.” Peter’s hands were on his stomach, his legs stretched out under the coffee table, laying deep into his overstuffed couch. They’d eaten in his living room, rather than the high topped stools in the kitchen.

Marcus was perched at the edge of his seat, as though with Peter’s next breath, he might have to bolt for the exit. Marcus made a face. “Habit, I suppose,” he said.

When everything was over, in his life, people usually expected a hasty departure. It was easier not to linger, his face would be a reminder of fear and pain. So he tried to prepare them, to start the process of leaving, even as the dust continued to settle.

He looked at Peter and thought briefly of Casey Rand, who he would have liked to have seen truly recover. And Andy’s kids, who Peter mentioned he’d heard were settled with Rose not far away. Marcus sometimes daydreamed about holding little Harper in his arms again.

They didn’t need his presence. They needed to move on. And now that he knew he was leaving, that he must leave, didn’t Peter?

“You can go now, if you need to,” Peter told him, as though it were obvious.

“I don’t need to now,” Marcus said immediately, too forcefully. “I’m not ready. It’s not time.” He didn't want to.

“Then be here, please, Marcus.” Peter’s eyes were filling with hurt, banked, and still somehow understanding. “I want you, not your shadow.”

Marcus drew his hand across his eyes, looking up with raised brows at this wonderful man. "Won't it be worse in the end? I don't want to hurt you. I don't--"

Peter held out a hand to him, but when Marcus hesitated, he sat up, leaning forward with elbows propped on his knees. Suddenly, so very present. "When I brought you here," he said slowly. "I didn't know what was going to happen. But I knew you needed help and that I wanted to give it to you."

They had never talked about this. Marcus had thought he didn't really need to know, but now he whispered, " _Why?_ "

Peter took his time before he spoke. He studied Marcus, his eyes moving across his face. Marcus didn't know what emotion, what deep well of confusion and uncertainty he could discern.

"I told you when we first met, I've been where you were. Where you still are, to some degree, I think. And I'm a helper. A carer. It's why I went into the Army. Why I do what I do now. I think you're the same, Marcus. You just don't know how to take care of yourself." Peter smiled. "Well, you've gotten better. But I'm sure it wasn't the highest priority for the teachers who trained you to do...what you do."

"We've never talked about what I do." Marcus' voice was hoarse to his own ears.

Peter reached out and took Marcus' hand. "I've spoken with Rose. She told me a little--what I needed to know about what happened to Andy. She's so grateful to you and so are the kids--"

"I can't see them." The words snapped out of him. Bleak and final.

Peter squeezed his hand. "They know. They get it and so do I, hun. You don't have to be or do things you can't just because other people need. You don't have to try and make this easier for me, just because it's going to be hard. I don't need or want you to, do you understand?"

Marcus stared at him. He opened his mouth, and didn't quite know what to say. A lifetime of self-sacrifice, and here this man was telling him--what, exactly?

"I don't think--" He didn't know what he thought. He tried again, "I...but..."

"Marcus, my feelings for you are not your emotional burden to bear. Neither is the loss I'll feel when you leave here. You don't need to alleviate it. Especially when you haven't even gone yet. You'll have your own feelings to deal with, you don't need to take on mine."

All of that made sense, Marcus supposed. He'd never thought of any of these things in quite that way before. He'd not had many relationships and none like this one. His once playful and transgressive feelings towards Mouse had blown up in his face, leaving him scarred and wracked with a guilt he'd carried for a very long time. His mentorship and partnership with Tomas was built on a miasma of emotions, thick with his sense of protectiveness, but tinged with something else, something strong he'd never allowed himself to closely examine.

Emotions were messy things that Marcus had always striven to contain, either within himself or tied intrinsically to one other person, a person he wanted to care for, to protect. It seemed an alien concept, that the other person wouldn't want his protection, would in fact, be hurt by it.

He wasn't sure how to say all that, so he told Peter, "I hope you know how grateful I am to you. How much you've helped me, just by...being you, I suppose." He looked again into Peter's eyes. "I wish I could stay. I really do."

"I know, hun. I think...and maybe I'm wrong, but you wish you wanted to stay, too, don't you?"

Marcus' mouth fell open. He hadn't meant to imply that. He hadn't meant to hurt Peter in this way, as well. On top of everything he'd taken from him.

Marcus finally let Peter pull him close by his hand, gently tugging him to sit with their knees touching, the warmth of their bodies mingling. “There's something you should know, that I think might make you feel better about all of this." He paused, smiling softIy with that deep sincerity in his face, and said, "I love you, Marcus. But I’m not in love with you.”

“Oh,” Marcus said. His heart, strangely, felt lighter in that moment.

“I can let you go when you need me to. Please don’t worry.”

Marcus smiled, helpless and awestruck. “I won’t, then,” he said.

“That’s the last thing I want.”

“I know.”

They made love that night, so sweetly, almost like it was new again. Maybe it was. Marcus loved Peter because he was just the right person at just the right time. And maybe Marcus was that for Peter, as well. He didn’t need to speculate. It didn’t matter at all. They were here now and what was between them was good. But it wasn’t God and it wasn’t life and death. It simply was. And that was perfect.

Peter slept beside him. He would often snuggle closer, unconsciously in the middle of the night, and Marcus loved it. He’d slept alone for so long, never knowing what he was missing. He thought he might miss that the most.

He thought of Tomas then, all alone now. Mouse didn’t seem as though she would make the same mistakes twice. Tomas might have, he always seemed to be searching for contact--spiritual, emotional, physical when he could, when he let himself.

Marcus ached for him. He opened his eyes.

Peter stirred, mumbling, “What’s wrong?”

Marcus made a little hmm sound. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t sound like how loud I can hear you thinking.” There was a smile in Peter’s voice. Indulgent, still so gentle.

“I just realized something,” Marcus said quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Realizations can always wait ‘til the morning, hun,” Peter mumbled into Marcus’ shoulder.

Marcus laughed softly and turned his head to meet Peter’s in a warm, sleepy kiss. His heart constricted, thinking of Tomas, but sleep he did, finally, in Peter’s arms.


End file.
